Orchard rising
each spring in bloom,
wild apples
in the warm season
and bare in winter again
Snow on the stone
wall, in disrepair
among the trees,
from centuries past
The old road
downhill from the cabin,
near overgrown, following
the creek bed
where watercress
grew among the stones,
hidden between
the flashes of the stream.
Like fingers
moving down a harp
I recorded the memory,
morning dew; walking
along the rocks and moss,
as the sound grew silent.
The creaking of the floorboard,
warm stone
next to the iron furnace
red embers crackling
wood smoke,
a knowing smile.
Walking
alongside a ghost;
the wind, tracing
the edges of the trees,
figures blurring
in glimpses of light
between the oaks.
A distant voice
heard so many
years past;
resonant.